The Art of Touch

The Art of Touch
24th September with Robyn Avalon
Harberton Village Hall, Totnes Devon
11.00 am to 4.00 pm

I know a little corner in a lane where the blackberries are abundant. They also hide in the company of nettles and hooked thorns.
This year I was better equipped.
A gardening glove
My hooked extra long shoe horn
Stout boots
Tough jeans
AND a good bag.
And the Art of Touch.

Each unique berry needs something slightly different in my approach; touches me differently to it’s cousin.
How delicate my hand needs to be as a multi tool.
First finger and thumb, a delicate pincer to test the readiness of the berry to part from it’s stem and then to twirl it ever so slightly until it rolls away down into bowl of my hand, just so, to be secured between the crook of my little finger and palm without either crushing it or leaving a gap big enough for it to roll through.
Is that one firm? This one more squishy? How many berries can mount up in my palm like that while still plucking, before I have to empty this handful into the bag to make room for more.
A bird is alarmed and shouts at me from the hedge. The sun is dazzling when I look up. I can smell something underfoot (let’s not tread there)
I need to reach and stretch….and here, waggle my tail to gain greater length in my wingspan. But now my whole front is impossibly caught on the one way curve of fishook prickles which I must then undo without ripping my forearm or tipping the whole collection out of the bag.
The space behind me is there to offer support and balance in my awareness…. Because my feet are now also in a tangle of ferns and roots.
ok, let’s feel the ground and check my space. No hurry to take a step anywhere otherwise I’ll topple nose first into the brambles.

In my being there is a contentment with the task. I’m warm on the inside as well as from the outside in the sun’s heat.
I’m 360 degrees involved in this juicy, spikey little corner on the planet. A fat bee tumbles in front of me.

It doesn’t really matter what I touch and what touches me. It could be a horse or a pot, or a rose or your arm.
It is me though, that is both receiving and giving touch. Not just my hand, but the whole of me. Not just a fruit but the whole tree.
My feet are not only touching the ground but the ground touches me back.
If whatever I touch is my friend and I treat it as such, how I come to touch will be imbued with friendship.
I can’t be rough on myself with this kind of touch.

And then the art of touch can accompany me as a way of being in the world and not something I keep just for special occasions.

Come join us on the 24th.